


Red Hot Lies

by Meriah



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Anime)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-18
Updated: 2014-02-18
Packaged: 2018-01-12 23:40:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1204795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meriah/pseuds/Meriah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fueled to understand mankind, Mewtwo transforms and presents himself as an anthropologist. Along the way, he meets a prostitute with secrets behind her façade. Intrigued, he desires to learn more about her... but she is playing the same game. And why is Mewtwo hoarding surgical equipment?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red Hot Lies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WiseAbsol](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WiseAbsol/gifts).



**Chapter 1: Coffee and Cigarettes**

_It will all be over soon._  

The sentence resonated through her mind, but it did nothing to ease the storm within her. 

 _Almost over._  

Her face was marked with barred teeth and shut eyes with a body stiff as an ironing board. She was with a man; one of several from throughout the week with whom she would never learn his name or his story, as he hurriedly unbuttoned his shirt. He gave no look at the face as his temporary lover but only at her swollen nipples, the slight depression in her navel, the reservoir between her thighs. He failed to notice as her fingernails dug into the mattress _–_ a hint that she despised all of it.

His breath reeked of cheap whiskey mixed with peppermint gum. A pale, rounded abdomen spilled out from him. His face was covered with a thick beard to conceal acne scars, and it scratched against the woman as he explored her body. They exchanged nothing but animalistic groans, ignoring the conversation that he was a part-time father, a part-time entrepreneur with a sprawling business in Celadon City, and a full-time liar with secrets. She detected it in his insecurity; the way he acted so cold and demeaning – so _robotic_ \- when he pinched her buttocks.

The motel room smelled of mildew, cigarettes and semen. She listened in on the ceiling fan haphazardly spinning around. Its noise was almost loud enough to block out anything emitting from her and the man. One dying light bulb flicked on and off to cast shapes on the walls. The sheets beneath her were filthy due to ashes, spilled liquor, and sexual fluids.

No one was to hear about this profession of hers. For one thing, she had no one to tell.  
  
“Mmm... I like you. How about we have some fun?” the older man spoke as the woman’s manicured hand brushed his lap. The lace details of his lover’s balconet bra were outlined in her shirt as if begging to be shown, felt and discarded... like her.

And damn, she was so used to all of this night after night.

Heat rose from the client’s groin. He needed to be inside her, to hear her cries harmonize with his own, for their silhouettes to become one. But it was only lust.

His slate-gray eyes confronted the mistress like weapons ready to attack. Beneath those retinas was something bitter. It was the same stare that fell upon his wife as they sipped their coffees in the morning and lay beside each other in the night. Those eyes served as a reminder of what both women could never have – a man to truly love and cherish.

She found it easier to not look into them.

His mouth found hers and they exchanged saliva like rabid vermin. Nausea whirled in her stomach.

“Let me have you,” he murmured.  
  
 _You can never_ genuinely _have me_ , she thought to herself in the filthy motel room. The stench of cigarettes rolled through her nose and cold sweat beaded down her face. She took in a breath, then her legs parted to reveal pink flesh. Long waves of red hair trailed down the bed. “Okay,” she responded.

His erect cock bulged against the seam of his pants. She caressed it through the jeans, long fingers wrapping around that thing she vilified and adored. Meanwhile, her bra fell off to become mixed with the sheets. It was then that their mouths met once again, sloppy and wet, making blood and heat rush through the man. His cock pulsated with every jerk she gave through his jeans. He bit down on the woman’s lower lip; cemented a knee between her thighs. His tousled gray hair made him look ancient in the dim light.

She was dry between her thighs as she studied the blue spider web-like design that outlined his bloated abdomen. Another wave of nausea jolted through her insides.

His mouth coiled around her left nipple, and his hand massaged the other until it domed from the friction. He suckled from her like an infant, cooing into her tender flesh and his face a pale pink. Then his tongue voyaged downward into the crevice of her navel.

It was by this time that she laid there with her gaze transfixed on the shadows around the room. The amorphous figures bounced off the furniture, a broken clock, and a yellowed painting of a duck pond that was likely purchased from a thrift shop. As he played with her navel and buckled her hips, the woman spouted: “Do you have a condom?”

She had already predicted the response.

There was a pause. Above, the ceiling fan motor whirled violently against the mounting device. His mouth closed, his gaze fell downward, and she felt his circulation tighten in his legs.

“Why the fuck would I-” he finally spat. “I mean, you're-”

“I know.”

“I mean this is your _job._ I thought you would be _prepared._ ” He retorted. _“_ Why would you expect me to have a God damn condom?”

“I don’t know,” she chortled. “I guess I was too hopeful?”

He sunk a tooth into his lip. There was another moment of silence until he firmly replied, “I have another life. I have an identity to live by every day. I can't just keep shit like that around. I mean if anyone found out...”

He quickly unzipped his pants. Automatically, she did the same as if controlled by gears and wires.

The man released a sigh, tinged with emotions the prostitute could not comprehend. He said, “Well then, I guess we’ll have to do this differently. I can’t believe you wouldn’t have a condom. Jesus Christ.”

She yelped as he entered her vagina, and phlegm coated her throat. Sickness always overpowered her during such moments.

His briefs clung to his ankles as he fucked her. Her chest heaved upward with each thrust, then fell with his grunts and labored breaths. Throughout all of this, she looked up at the ceiling fan with its one crackling bulb that washed everything in yellow. Its sparkles of dust motes made her head swarm.

They exchanged no words, only the sounds of the twisted game.

He shifted onto his knees, lifting her legs onto his clammy shoulders. Her ribcage jutted against through her frame as her nails dug deeper into the mattress. Only then did his briefs finally fall from him, landing on the dusty carpet.

The man kissed her again, the taste of whiskey contaminating her tongue. The room, in spite of her perfume, still carried rancid odors. Another swell of nausea rolled in her insides. The ceiling fan rumbled as if in tune with every thrust he gave, and all she could focus on were its blades cutting against the musky air.

_No need to be upset. My life is meaningless anyway, isn't it? Filth and squalor._

She gritted her teeth; her body clenched. A blank expression stretched across her lips as her legs became limp in the man’s grasp. She ground her teeth with such power that there was no way for her to scream her hatred for him from the caverns of her larynx and vocal cords.

Then he ripped out from her, his penis raw and its veins engorged the deepest purple-red. He locked his legs around her body.

And with her gaze still pressed on the machine attached to the ceiling, the man – so automatic himself – released his sticky, white liquid onto her breasts, with his eyes shut as the sensation coursed like electricity through his nerves. He disregarded her bared teeth and the emptiness that radiated from her, because he did not know. He did not _care_. And she knew he must not have known or cared.

Taken by exhaustion, he uncoiled himself from the woman. Neither individual said a word as the man rolled over onto the mattress. Then once more the ceiling flickered its light and spun its fans, expelling its last juice of electricity. Silence and darkness penetrated the room. Within minutes the man was asleep, his body wrapped within the cotton sheets. He was lost in some faraway dream. It was undetectable if any subconscious guilt plagued him, although his body did quiver at random intervals.

It was in that realm that the prostitute listened for something, anything, to liberate her from the setting of filth and sins. From what seemed light-years away, she heard the _drip-drop drip-drop_ of the neglected bathroom faucet. It was enough to ease her.

With bones feeling threadbare, the woman made it to the bathroom to drink water. She looked upon her reflection in the mirror as the glass slowly filled from beneath the faucet. Her expression had long become frayed as a pair of jeans, and her lipstick was smudged by forced kisses. She stood there, bare, with the face of an adult and the small ribs of a girl. And if for a split second, she thought she could see that child reaching out to her – a face from so long ago with the hopes and dreams for a better life. Then the glass fell from her dirtied hands and smashed against the sink.

Her eyes widened and she leaped back. She took a breath, inhaling and exhaling her surroundings, bringing her senses back to reality. Quickly, she reached into the medicine cabinet with hands pushing aside the Motrin, Neosporin, and Benadryl. A familiar object of silver and teal came into view, carrying the aroma of miscellaneous chemicals. Cigarettes. Her first-aid, one could say.

Driven by routine, she pulled a cigarette from the pack. She bought it to her mouth. Then she flicked the lighter once, and from it came a flame that showcased her sweaty face. The smoke coursed through her. The addiction was bound to kill her in due time, but it was her solace. Her only lover. She would never reveal that the reason for her dependence was that the taste reminded her of kisses exchanged between adolescents – the very taste of innocence that results in a lifetime of toxic love.

She waited for her endorphins to waltz with nicotine, to allow for clarity and escape. As the smoke came through her mouth in coils of white-gray she reminded herself that she was not the one degraded that evening.

A few minutes passed. The cigarette burned down to almost nothing as she threw it into the toilet. The woman entered the blackness of the bedroom again with silent feet on the carpet. As he slept, she could see the trace of his body rise up and down with every snore he gave. Overcome with drunkenness, he would be asleep well until morning. She got onto her knees on the floor, her hands touching ashes, piss stains, and spilled liquor. When she found his pants, she fumbled through the pockets for any objects – any rewards for the awful sex and putrid semen on her body. She snatched his wallet.

Quickly, she dressed herself by the bed, pulling on a sweater and skirt. She stepped into her shoes, brushed her hair with her long fingers, and then creaked upon the door. Then she took one final glance at the shadowed man. “Sleep tight, asshole.”

The clanging of stilettos echoed against the floor as the woman walked down the motel balcony. She passed by used hypodermic needles, beer bottles, and the shouting of a violent perpetrator from behind a closed door. Her pace increased as she went down the stairs, passing by a meowth ridden with fleas. It rummaged through the garbage can, only startling the woman with the sound of metal hitting the ground.

It was as humid outside as in the motel room, and she wished she dressed in something lighter. Sweat stuck to her clothes as if to remind her of the incident act from only minutes before. Across the parking lot, the faint glow of a diner broke the darkness. The scents of donuts and old coffee wafted through the heavy air. She scurried across the pavement.

The diner was open twenty-four hours, seven days a week, as a beacon for travelers and the fallen. It was postured between the motel and an abandoned garage overflowing with rusty cars. She entered through the door and a bell rang to indicate the presence of anyone at such a late hour. The woman was a familiar at the diner, although no one knew her name. She sat at the lounge.

It was then that Rosa, with wrinkles in her skin like those on her apron, came out of the kitchen. She frequently played the role of a waitress although tonight also served as the cook. She whipped flour off her hands as she went up to the other younger woman with a pot of coffee. In truth, the customer despised black coffee – its acidic, bitter taste reminded her of semen – but milk and sugar was far from an improvement. She accepted the complimentary serving, chugging it down as her stomach twisted again.

“Not good a night for you, honey?” Rosa asked in her thick Salvadoran accent. She reached out to her with a comforting gesture, her hands marred by grease burns and her breasts limp after multiple children. In another time she may have been beautiful.

“Horrible man,” the younger woman answered after setting down the coffee cup. “I didn’t get a good feeling from him at all.”

“Sad,” Rosa responded. “Very sad. Take as long as you need, okay?”

“No, it’s fine. Just the regular.”

“Nuh uh, not tonight. I will see to it that I will make you something special.” Rosa retreated into the kitchen, while the other individual wiped the perspiration from her face onto a napkin. The residue mixed with her concealer and foundation, coloring the napkin in shades of ivory.

The owner of the diner, a man in his fifties with his taste for customer service as bland as his entrees, made the establishment seem like a cold-hearted business rather than a gathering place. He knew businesses generate money; gathering places generate only chitchat. From his perspective, his kitchen – the _industrial_ kitchen where employees were paid to knead bread with their gazes on the clock and to fry steaks over grease and flame, where there were steel appliances rather than heirlooms – created meals for cheap, but never with love. And in some way, that made all of the meals taste as horrible as the coffee that then slid down the prostitute’s throat.

However, the nameless woman savored the meals that were produced by Rosa’s scarred hands. There was always the harmony of cinnamon, ginger, vanilla, and sometimes the spices of the cook’s homeland. And if that would be the only comfort for her that night, perhaps it was enough.

A few feet away from her, the owner glimpsed upon her thin frame with a grin as stale as the pastries. Never once in the years that she frequented the establishment did they exchange words, but she always sensed him – she always felt those dark eyes scanning her. She sipped the coffee, trying to brush off the sensation, while he cleaned a booth with circular motions. He did this gesture every time she was present, acting as if were mere coincidence.

 _My God, cut it the fuck out. I can see right through the bullshit,_ she thought.

He scrubbed the booth with a soggy rag, mixing contaminants with bleach. His stare penetrated the woman. Above him, a sepia print of cool-headed James Dean contrasted with the fluorescent lights of the diner. To the right, a print of John Wayne appeared to be judging his movements with his icy blue eyes.

The prostitute took out her reward from the night: the cash from her client’s wallet. She caressed the stack between her fingers like pressed petals, inhaling the scents of paper and ink. She granted the same attention as a king does to his jewels – something that represented prestige, opportunity, and ultimately acted as a doorway to sins. She _earned_ that money! And yet, George Washington’s face fell upon her with disapproval – liars and deceivers were not what he wanted of his fore-children – but she hid that bill under her coffee mug, noting that folklore was never an interest of hers. Instead, she focused on the fifty dollar and one hundred dollar bills – the stern faces of Ulysses S. Grant and Benjamin Franklin.

She manipulated those around her with alluring eyes, parted lips, and charm. Yet it was the sweet melody of her voice that was the most enticing, and she convinced men to unknowingly play her game. Indeed, she was always amused that men were illustrated on bills as if they wielded all the power, when in truth any could be enchanted by the spells of a beautiful woman. Men had _needs_ that only someone of her gender could satisfy.

About ten minutes later, Rosa passed through the kitchen doors with a tray supported by her heavy arms. A yawn escaped from her mouth and dark circles lined her eyelids. She pushed her hips against the edge of the counter for balance. Forty-eight and grayed by too many years at that diner working shifts from morning into the late hours of night, she was a standard example of chasing the American Dream. Threads of damp hair unfurled from her barrettes as she walked toward the one customer.

“More coffee?” she asked as she placed the food down. Another yawn. Her legs wobbled.

“No, Rosa. Please sit down for a minute. Catch a breath.”

“Can’t stop. My job, you know?” She smiled through the creases in her skin, but they both knew that she yearned for sleep.

“A club sandwich and fries? You know me too well,” the customer remarked. “And you skipped the mayonnaise, right?”

The pot-bellied employee laughed in response, “Of course! I know you hate it as much as I do!”

With a giggle, the prostitute traced the French-fries through a puddle of ketchup. She left red zigzag designs across the plate before setting the food in her mouth – a quirk that she failed to notice in herself. Then she declared after a swallow, “You know… I have to say, you make these shitty nights a bit more tolerable.”

Rosa remarked with frankness in her voice, “I think we both hate our lives.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you made it this far, congratulations. It is my hope that I have peaked your interest long enough for you to want to read more!
> 
> 1\. I can guess that you’re wondering where is Mewtwo throughout all of this writing. If you feel deceived, please know that Mewtwo enters later and he is a main character. I considered starting the fic with him (after all, I know you’re here for Mewtwo), but I didn’t think it would be appropriate for the flow of this story. Furthermore, I wanted to open with an exploration of the woman’s daily (nightly?) life. All of this said, if you’re familiar with my older works hosted at FFNet, you know that I don’t like to lead readers into the action right away – and yes, I do like to build up things in the most subtle of ways.
> 
> 2\. I omitted revealing the woman’s name in this chapter for the sake of mystery. There is a lot of power that comes in a name – a lot of exposure, perhaps is the better word – and I don’t want to give away too much about her all at once. You will learn her name later.
> 
> 3\. As I said in the story summary, Mewtwo will be in a human form throughout this story due to having learned to transform. Before you correct me, I already know that Mewtwo cannot learn that move! I do have an explanation for him being able to transform that will be covered later on.
> 
> 4\. I love reviews. You love writing reviews. So review and make me happy!


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